


Daemon

by jamlocked



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked
Summary: 'It starts, as everything does, with a birth.Not a normal birth.'Daemon AU set in the Sherlock 'verse. Daemon's, of course, come from Philip Pullman'sHis Dark Materials, and an overview of daemons themselves can be foundhere.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

It starts, as everything does, with a birth.

Not a normal birth.

Not a birth that has ever been seen before.

There are smiles and encouragement, as you’d expect. There’s a rabbit scampering excited circles on the floor, and a dog perched on a chair to the side, head cocked – this is normal. The midwife says _push_ and the rabbit adds _yes yes push_ , so she does, and she’s sweating and groaning, legs hiked high, and her husband is holding her hand. And that’s not so usual – that the husband is there for the delivery, and that he’s holding her hand at all – but this is a special occasion. A first-born child. And there’s a wail, and then a happy cry from the nurse, and the new parents can enjoy the spark that comes with hearing, _a boy!_ They would have been happy with a girl, but still. A first-born son, something that still holds weight in Ireland, in 1976.

But then the smile flickers. The rabbit and the dog exchange a look, even as she’s reaching for him, her boy. But the nurse doesn’t hand him over; she stands very still, blinking, her big pink face slowly paling under the delivery room lights.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

But she doesn’t move. The mother makes a sound that’s less a gasp and more of a sob, reaching, reaching, but the nurse will not give her her baby. The father can’t take it and lets go of his wife, joy already lost to fear. Illness, or deformity, it must be; Lord knows the lad is alive, screaming fit to burn the world. He strides around the bed, because he’s a man of vigour and he will face it, whatever this is. It’s better to _know_ …

…until he sees.

‘What _is_ it?’

The dog starts howling. The rabbit is beside itself at once, cowering in fear, jumping onto the bed to nestle into the mother’s neck. The midwife’s owl flies to her shoulder, brown feathers turning grey with such finality that it’s clear they’ll never turn back.  ‘Where is it?’ he whispers, because his human can’t speak. ‘Where _is_ it?’

The mother is crying. She sits up despite her pain. She sees her son, flailing and covered in blood, limbs and a smattering of dark, dark hair. Ten fingers, ten toes. His features are where they should be, his arms and legs are the right length. He is clearly a boy.

He is clearly alone.

The rabbit is trembling, a full-body thing that vibrates through her bones, shaking all thought away. ‘Where is it?’ is all she can say. ‘ _Where_ …’

The midwife turns the baby over. Mechanically, as if clearing mucus or spit, she swipes her little finger through his mouth. But no, it’s not hiding. It’s just not there.

She holds him out to his mother, who recoils. The father, then; he doesn’t step back, but doesn’t take his son, who has now shoved his fist into his mouth and is crying into it blindly, wanting _something_ , he doesn’t know what, but it’s cold and big and strange and there is every reason to scream.

‘Take him,’ the midwife says. ‘I have to get the doctor.’

So the father lifts his hands, and takes his son. Just his son; a boy, alone.

 

*

 

There’s another birth three months later; three hundred miles away as the crow flies. It is entirely normal, except this boy is born into a family that’s anything but normal. He arrives in the afternoon without much fuss and they love him at once. By evening he is sleeping, a tiny shape at his side which is a butterfly, and then a bee, then a tiny ball of fluff with pointed ears and a pink nose. His mother, and father, and big brother stand over him, watching with fond eyes. Their daemons are a curled heap under the bassinet, twined and breathing together, a group as one.

 

*

 

In Ireland, they call him James. If things had been different, they would have called him something else. There was a family name, tradition for the first-born…but they can’t use it now, it’s just not - - anyway, James is a good name. A good name for a beautiful boy, because he _is_ beautiful, with soft hair that’s so dark it’s almost black, and eyes you could fall into and never come out. They’re far too big for his face, huge and round ( _demon’s eyes_ , they whisper in Confession, and quietly beg the Father to do something about him, to get him _out)_ , and when he smiles his mother thinks that if he would do that more often, she might forget for a moment.

But he doesn’t smile very much. And she thinks…that’s her fault. Because she doesn’t hold him much, even when he was a baby. He would wake up and cry, and be fed, and go back to sleep. When he was an age to recognise faces, she would go to him in the morning and he would reach his arms up, and grin and grin, little legs kicking up in excitement, _hello, I know you, hello._ And she…would not smile back. She’d stand and watch him until the smile faded and the legs kicked more slowly, and great fat tears started rolling down his cheeks. Only then could she bring herself to pick him up, and see that he got fed. From a bottle, of course.

She tells herself it’s not her fault. How could anyone smile at him when it’s so clear what he’s going to be? When she hears them whispering in the shop, she knows what they’re saying. _Should’ve drowned him at birth, should’ve given him up, should make him go away._

And she thinks…maybe I should.

She did think about it. They did. But the doctor couldn’t find anything else wrong with him, so what could they do? She might wish he would fall asleep and not wake up sometimes, but she can’t make that happen. It might be that no one would blame her, because even the doctors didn’t know what to say; every specialist under the sun, and not one of them knew what to do. Not a medical miracle, he’s just a baby. But…something. No one knows what. Except, she thinks, she does.

It’s his first sports day at school. She stands with the other parents, watching the children race, until she notices they’ve all managed to drift away from her. She grits her teeth and claps with the rest, waiting for the only one they’d allow Jamie to run. The long-distance race, a full turn around the big field and then the child-size racetrack. He’s too small for it really, but he’s fast for his age. He should be able to keep up. He won’t beat Ryan Mulroney because no one will, but at least they’re letting him take part.

The teacher yells _go_. She watches him run, shooting off like a little rocket. No one claps and no one cheers. The other children are still on the start line with their puppies and birds and cats and otters, flitting through one shape to the next around their feet, on the ground or flying around their shoulders. None of them run.

‘Come on, kids!’ says the teacher, though his pig sits facing away from the one figure off ahead, refusing to look at it. ‘Go on, now.’

They start to move. A few parents clap as they make their way down the track, before they veer off to circle the edge of the field and won’t be heard anymore.  People are glancing her way but she squares her jaw and keeps her eyes on her son, out in front on his own, with none of the bigger, faster boys daring to try too hard in case they get close to him. She thinks _go on, keep going_ , because if he stops they’ll have to deal with the other kids stopping too.

Jamie is puffing as he reaches the track again, one more circle before the end of the race. The Mulroney boy is twenty yards behind, a mulish expression on his face as he tries not to run too fast. His daemon is a bear cub rolling alongside, calling to him to go _faster faster faster_ but he holds himself back and James stumbles on, tripping on tufts of grass as his legs tire.

The crowd is silent as he crosses the line first. He stops straight away, gasping for air, and turns with half a smile on his face before he remembers that his triumph means nothing, because nothing he ever does can make up for what he is. _Move_ , she thinks, watching him. _Move out of the way so they can finish._

The other children are collecting ten feet down the track. Ryan Mulroney has his hands on his hips, glaring at the winner. Parents at the side look from the group, to James, to the teachers who don’t know what to do.

‘James,’ one tries, taking a step forward while his panda takes one back, then another, then another. ‘Could you maybe mo-‘

Jamie raises his arms above his head in a victory salute. He seems to be waiting for someone to applaud. Because he _won_ , didn’t he?

No one applauds. Ryan Mulroney’s bear morphs into a small lion instead, and sways forward with a growl. James doesn’t even look at it; eyes closed and face turned up, congratulating himself if no one will do it for him. And no one tries to stop the lion as it bounds forward with its teeth bared, snarling. It gathers itself to leap, and everyone just watches; in horror maybe, or in hope.

But James just lowers his head, and opens his eyes. The lion falters just as it looked about to spring.

‘You won’t touch me,’ she hears him say. They all do. ‘You can’t.’

The lion doesn’t spring. It shrinks back into a house cat and stays there, until Ryan walks to collect it. He only does this after James has turned his back on them all, and started trudging back towards the school.

At bedtime, his mother tucks him in without looking at him, as always. He makes no attempt to speak, as always – until her hand goes towards his lamp, and she hears, ‘why haven’t I got a daemon?’

Her hand pauses. ‘I don’t know, Jamie. No one knows.’

‘What does it mean?’

She swallows and turns out the light. He may be an unnatural thing, her son, but it doesn’t mean she wants him to see from her what he sees from everyone else. Not more than she can help, anyway. But how can she explain to a five year old that it’s not just odd to be without a daemon, it’s - - it’s _repellent_ , in a way there are no words for.

‘I don’t know.’

‘If I had one, would they like me?’

 _They wouldn’t be scared of you_ , she thinks – but is that even true? Even without his abnormality, he’s not a normal boy. Too clever, too…wrong.

‘I don’t know, Jamie. Time to sleep now.’

She can feel him watching her face. Then he turns over in his empty bed; it had seemed cruel to ever buy him a teddy bear, or stuffed animal. She won’t rub his face in it.

‘I don’t need one,’ he says, in a quiet voice that is in no way small. ‘I’m alright on my own.’

She touches his hair just once before she leaves the room. He might survive on his own, she thinks. But he can never be alright.

 

 

*

 

He’s taken to trying to touch her rabbit. She’s told him a million times he can’t do that, and she knows he understands. It’s just part of life; your daemon goes with you, you are never apart, your daemon can touch another daemon, _you do not touch someone else’s daemon_.

Of course it happens sometimes, though it’s not something people talk about. A parent might let their young child pet a cat’s fur, just a little. Lovers that burn with the intensity of knowing they’ll never be apart - - they might allow it. And there are rumours, of course; places you can go to indulge in the most intimate of exchanges, people who get off on letting people violate them without a physical touch.

James knows all these things, even if he cannot have the first-hand experience. And yet, he won’t stop trying to coax Benjamin to him. It started with an offered hand and a soft cooing noise, before she snapped and told him to stop it. So he outright asked if he could touch, and she was so surprised and horrified she slapped him.

He tried to catch Benjamin out after that. Hiding in odd corners, attempting to grab him as he passed by. She’s always close as well, of course, she has to be. Benjamin is quick and ready for him, so James has yet to lay a finger on him. But he won’t stop trying, and it’s a game that leaves her exhausted, crying, wishing her husband hadn’t left two years ago and yet not blaming him for being unable to take this. He’d always wanted lots of children, and they hadn’t dared try for another. What if it had happened again?

‘ _Stop_ it, James,’ she says, for the hundredth time. ‘You can’t play with him.’

She knows he understands. He’s eight, and he’s far smarter than she could ever hope to be. Smarter than any adult, and all the more untouchable for it. She thinks maybe she hears him crying sometimes, but how can he? You need a soul to be able to cry. The effects of his missing daemon are becoming more and more clear. The attempts to grab Benjamin. The silence in school, and the words from the doctors she takes him to, talking about him as he sits there staring at the carpet, feet swinging in chairs too big for him. _It’s hard to say what will happen next, Mrs Moriarty_. _There is simply no precedence for this – but nothing good can happen_. They’re never afraid to talk in front of him. You need a soul to feel pain.

Things go missing. Sometimes, people get hurt – but people always get hurt, especially children at that age. And then one afternoon she sits next to him in a classroom while a little girl cries in the corridor outside. The headteacher is saying, _if he tries to hurt a daemon again, we will be unable to keep him in this school_. And James – no longer Jamie, at eight; she cannot pretend to baby him any more – crosses his arms to hug himself, and shakes his head and says, ‘I didn’t.’ But they all know he’s lying and, she thinks, they probably all know why he did it. But that doesn’t change the truth. You can’t touch another person’s daemon.

‘Home,’ she says, and walks ahead of him so she won’t have to look at his face, and those eyes you could mistake for warm, if you didn’t know such a part of him was missing.

 

*

 

A month later. She wakes up on a Saturday morning to find a note on the pillow next to her.

 

_Gone to live with dad._

_Benjamin’s already dead, did you know?_

 

She sits up in a panic, only to find Benjamin licking his paw at the end of the bed. Relief washes through her, followed by anger. The rabbit twitches his ears, and says in a haughty tone, _I don’t know what else you’d expect from him. But at least he’s gone_.

She looks at the note again. The relief is a different flavour this time. Illicit, and _good_. Oh, she’ll call the police, of course. She’ll ring his father in England. Even if he’s returned to her by the evening, she’ll have a day without him close, without the fear of him about to do…something. Whatever it is a person like that would do. Will do. Sometime. It’s inevitable.

But he doesn’t come back to her that evening. He never comes back to her at all.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

Sherlock Holmes is not a normal boy. Everyone knows it, including Sherlock Holmes. It doesn’t start the day he goes to his father and tells him there’s been a murder, and could he take him to the police station, please. It starts long before that; when Sherlock is introduced to other children, and is not kind to them, or when he’s bought toys and takes them apart instead of playing with them.

But while this is not normal behaviour for a child, it is normal behaviour for a _Holmes_ , so it’s not remarked upon by anyone in the family. Even when Sherlock is sent off to Eton, scowling and miserable and sarcastic, with his daemon snapping teeth or fangs at anyone who tries to come close…it’s still Sherlock being Sherlock. No, the abnormality comes later.

In his second year at school, one of Sherlock’s classmates takes a family skiing trip at Christmas. When he returns after the break, his daemon is no longer the shifting entity his peers are familiar with. She has settled into the shape of a caracal; an elegant thing with an air of superiority. Sherlock hears Thompson’s friends whispering to each other, _it’s because he met a girl in France_ and _they…y’know – and the next day, she’d stopped shifting_.

He looks down at his own daemon. ‘When are you going to settle, Aparctias?’

The tree frog shrugs and shifts into a snake, curls around his calf and rests his head on his knee. ‘You like me being different. I suit your moods.’

‘You’re already different.’

‘More different, then.’

Sherlock has never met another boy with a male daemon. Aparctias has never explained why it’s the case, and nor have his parents. They just say it’s probably a family thing. Uncle Rudy, after all, had a male daemon, so there’s nothing so unusual about it.

‘Mycroft should have a male daemon.’

‘Do you say so? I think Eos suits him perfectly. She won’t stand any nonsense.’

He thinks of the white doe that settled with Mycroft when he was sixteen. Yes, she does suit him – and he’s occasionally wondered what happened at sixteen to finally make one shape stick. But he won’t ask, of course. If he’d been there he could have deduced it, he’s sure, but it’s too late now.

Thompson walks into the dorm, and the rest of the boys scramble to question him about the holiday, and what it felt like; is it _weird_ for Jacqueline not to shift anymore, could he tell the moment it happened, is he happy with her shape? A stupid question, Sherlock feels, lying back on his bed. Of course he’s happy with her shape. A person’s daemon is part of them, made from them, shaped by them and the things they do, are, think, feel. It would be impossible to be unhappy with their final shape, because if they were to be, it would not be the shape settled upon. If a daemon settles as the ugliest frog, or the hairiest spider, it’s because that is how they are supposed to be.

‘Don’t think so much on it,’ Aparctias says, a puppy with spiky ears and bright, sharp eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway.’

‘You’re right,’ he says, and drags a chemistry textbook from under his pillow. ‘It doesn’t matter at all.’

 

*

 

At sixteen, Aparctias is still shifting. Sherlock watches him until he gets a bite on the ankle, or a bat on the face from a soft paw.

At eighteen, he lounges in the Bodleian and watches an eagle preen his feathers atop a bookshelf, then hop downwards only to land on cat feet, making the old floorboards squeak.

At twenty, he shivers under a bridge while a train rattles overhead, stinking water running down the bricks, junk-sweat pouring off him while Aparctias takes the form of a great long cat and drapes himself around his neck, warming him against the chill. ‘Is he coming?’ Sherlock says, and Aparctias turns into a bird and flies around the arch to see if the dealer is on his way, leaving Sherlock to fidget and swear, hating himself for this and loving it at the same time.

‘Thirty seconds away,’ Aparctias declares, a dog now; a thin dog as all his shapes are thin, underfed, withered at the edges. He loses fur in places, when he has fur; is often missing a few feathers, or a tooth. He doesn’t speak as much as he used to but that’s alright, because nor does Sherlock. They speak to each other, when the drugs have worn off. That’s enough.

At twenty-three, Sherlock prefers Aparctias to stay small, and in his pocket. People talk about him enough as it is, he doesn’t need all the extra questions as to why his daemon hasn’t settled yet. Even Mycroft…well, that was a conversation he never wants to have again.

‘Perhaps you should just…see someone,’ he’d said, with the air of someone who found the whole subject distasteful but was also enjoying his brother’s discomfort. ‘There are people you can pay, you know.’

‘It’s not about _sex_ , Mycroft,’ he had hissed back, because it isn’t. It can be, but it doesn’t _have_ to be. Though the fact he would suggest sex means the mystery about what caused Eos to settle is now over. ‘I just don’t- -‘

What? Even he didn’t know then, and certainly doesn’t now. Mycroft had just pulled that _face_ at him, and Sherlock looked away.

‘People will talk,’ Mycroft had said. ‘People are already talking.’

But Sherlock doesn’t care what people are saying, or what they think. He cares what _he_ thinks, because he’s the only person who’s not stupid. And anyway, why does he have to settle for anything? If his daemon is restless, so what? It just means there’s something out there to keep looking for – and when he finds it, it should be worth it.

 

 

*

 

There are rumours underground, ones it takes even Sherlock Holmes a long time to find. He may never have found this one at all were it not for a chance meeting with one of his homeless network. There’s a case, bog-standard. Fifty quid for a cup of tea, a name and place on a scrap of paper. He turns to go, and then stops. Someone is screaming, their voice echoing off the wet bricks of Vauxhall Arches. And because he’s Sherlock Holmes he runs _to_ the screaming, not away.

‘I saw I saw…I _saw…_ ’

It’s a young person of indeterminate gender. Their daemon is a tiny chameleon, curled into a ball in their hand, and their eyes are wide from terror, not drugs. Sherlock grasps their lapels, and gives them a shake. ‘Breathe, he says, curtly. ‘And _tell me_.’

‘They say…they’ve always said. It’s him.’

‘Him _who_?’

Filthy hands reach up and curl around Sherlock’s wrists. They pull him closer, black teeth and blacker breath whispering against his ear. ‘ _He’s got no daemon_.’

Sherlock frowns. ‘Impossible,’ he says, and the breath comes again, about to bring words and maybe ones that make sense, but then there’s a great _crack_. The first thing Sherlock sees is the chameleon disappear in a puff of dust. Only then does he realise the hands have loosed their grip and this person is dead, bleeding from a small hole at the temple.

‘Impressive,’ says Aparctias, in a dry tone. He’s looking a little healthier these days. ‘Two inches to the right, that would’ve been _your_ head.’

Sherlock regards the body. Then he searches it for a microphone, because that seemed an opportune time to kill a person, right when they might have divulged information. Either that, or it was pure luck – but no, there’s a bug stuck under their collar and one that acts as a tracking device as well.

He calls Lestrade. Waits with the body until the police arrive, and tells them everything. Except the part about someone with no daemon, because it’s ridiculous – and also because that doesn’t seem like the sort of information the police can be trusted with. He Googles it later, and is not surprised to find not a single mention of anyone, ever, being alive without a daemon. It’s simply not possible.

He sits back in his chair. 221b is warm, and quiet. A perfect haven for a solitary man. ‘What do you think, Aparctias?’ he says, and the turtle sticks his head out of his shell, chewing on a morsel of lettuce.

‘I think whoever they think they saw has a very small daemon. Something they can hide easily. If ‘they’ve always said’ there’s a person without one, it simply means the rumour has been cultivated. You do see any number of people who are ashamed of their daemon, and keep it in a pocket or bag.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not _ashamed_ of you.’

‘But I’m inconvenient to explain. You’re twenty-eight years old.’

‘It’s more that I don’t feel I should have to explain you. It’s no one else’s business.’

‘Yes,’ Aparctias says, and Sherlock does know he understands. ‘Still. A person was murdered, and you were there. You haven’t got any other decent cases at the moment. Might as well look into it.’

Sherlock smiles, and gets to his feet. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have put this disclaimer at the beginning: this fic is just a bit of fun to distract me from other stuff, and because I felt like it. It's rough, almost competely unedited, and I'm only making the vaguest stabs at canon compliance. So if ages aren't quite right, and you wonder where John is (he does not exist in this AU)....basically, eh. This is just an excuse to play around with daemons a little bit. I might write something more serious around it later, but for the moment, please forgive all the (probably many) inconsistencies, repetitions and errors.

 

 

 

It’s been a long, painful decade for James, who has become Jim. A long, painful, _silent_ decade, locked in rooms behind computer screens, discreetly taking over the underworld. London was conquered before he was twenty; the last ten years have been everywhere else. He started in Eastern Europe to establish a pivot point, a gateway between East and West, awash with filthy money from the days when it was stuck behind the Iron Curtain. The war in the Balkans had created a perfect generator of cash, of business, of corruption, of hideous attitudes by those who will slaughter any amount of people for profit and the promise of power. It sat there, waiting for him to arrive – and he did, and he took it with both hands, no intention of giving it back.

And then came 9/11 – nothing to do with him, but the opportunities that sprung up with the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan…he couldn’t have written a more enticing script. Mercenaries and drug smuggling, war crimes, torture, hordes of illegal gold, dictators and their hangers-on… _politics_ from America to China, everyone involved, everyone with opinions, everyone wanting to find their way in. And as it turns out, their way in is usually him.

In the end though, not much has changed. He can afford anything and go anywhere, but he has no one and nothing to talk to. When a scheme comes together and his bank accounts fill to bursting, there is no longer the triumph of beating a pack that don’t dare come near him. There’s only so much you can congratulate yourself before the words become meaningless, if they ever had meaning at all.

He comes back to London. It has one certain draw even if that draw was last seen killing itself with drugs. It’s probably dead now, but he puts feelers out anyway. They come back in less than an hour; an impressively short amount of time even for his people.

_Lots of people know him. He ruined the gallery job, and found the Palace leak. He’s a detective._

Sherlock Holmes, a detective. The boy who realised little Carl had been killed has actually come good. Jim would weep with happiness if he were capable.

 

*

 

A swimming pool, then. _The_ swimming pool. Jim watches from the corner as Sherlock enters, drawn here by nothing more nefarious than the words, _I hear you’ve been looking for me_. Well, that and the game they’ve been playing. Twelve people dead in those high-rise flats, plus the security guard and the professor, blah blah. Thirty million quid thrown away. Meaningless. Jim looks Sherlock over and is fully aware of his own hunger, as well as the permanent knowledge that it doesn’t matter what he feels, or thinks. He’s not ashamed of what he is, but he is never not aware of it. Always switched on to the way other people can’t bear it. Him.

He steps out of the shadows. Sherlock says nothing. He just stands there, watching. So Jim puts his hands in his pockets and saunters along the edge of the pool, waiting for the moment he’ll step back. ‘You think,’ he says, as he rounds the corner, ‘it’s all a rumour.’

He stops, thirty feet away. Sherlock says, ‘yes.’

‘And what do you think now?’

‘I think-‘ Sherlock’s eyes are flitting up and down, lingering for microseconds on pockets and folds, anywhere it could be hiding, ‘-come closer.’

Jim raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. Though it’s not really _mock_ – still, there’s a distance between them, so he wouldn’t be able to feel it yet. He walks on, letting the man look.

‘Stop.’

Doing what he’s told is a novelty. And he’s smirking to show it, but he can feel something wither inside him. He hadn’t noticed the hope was there, but he always feels it when it dies. ‘What do you think _now_?’

Sherlock’s eyes are closed. His daemon is not in sight, but it’ll be there somewhere. Jim watches him mentally testing the distance, his awareness shifting when someone so _wrong_ enters his space. An enemy on the periphery, feeling along the invisible line. Another step will violate everything these people find natural.

He leans his top half forward. Sherlock gasps quietly. His brow furrows. And then…he puts his hand up. Palm forward, as if warding him off. Jim starts to lean back, but hears, ‘no.’

Something sparks back to life inside. Sherlock is very still, testing the air – and then something peeks out of his jacket pocket with bright, curious eyes. Jim glances at it. Winks at it. It squeaks, and disappears.

‘Adorable.’

Sherlock’s eyes open, but his hand stays out. ‘You,’ he says, ‘are something _new_.’

‘I could’ve just told you that. And you have been hearing about it for a couple of years. You’ve not been subtle about looking for me.’

‘I wasn’t trying to be.’

‘I’m aware.’

The hand moves. Not away, as Jim expects. It turns in the air, from palm out to palm _up_ , looking for all the world as if it’s reaching for him. He blinks at it.

‘Closer, please.’

‘Why? You might throw up on me, and I’m wearing Westwood.’

‘You think you’re making me sick?’

Jim thinks, _I make everyone sick_. But Sherlock sounds genuinely baffled, and his hand is still outstretched. Jim glances at it, then takes a couple of steps closer – and it’s clear it’s affecting Sherlock the way it affects everyone, the sensation of something being very, very wrong. But he doesn’t step back. He leans into it, his eyes roaming every part of him.

‘Fascinating,’ he breathes, and Jim resists the need to shift from one foot to the other. It took a long time to learn to hide all signs of weakness, and he’s not going to relapse now it’s crucial.

‘What do you think now?’ he says again, with all trace of humour and mockery disappeared, nothing but a dead tone to hide how this feels; how it’s always felt. The freak in the room to be stared at and shied away from, too awful to even be laughed at. It would almost be better if they’d laugh. He could laugh with them, then.

Not that any of this matters. He left them behind a long time ago, didn’t he? He eyes Sherlock’s hand, out in the air between them.

‘I think you’re-‘

Jim waits.

‘-I don’t know what I think. And as you’ve obviously been a _fan,_ as you put it, for a while, you’ll know that’s not something I say every day.’

Jim watches his eyes. Sherlock watches back. It would be kind – or just expected – to admit the truth now. That Jim doesn’t know what he thinks either, because no one has ever overcome their revulsion long enough to think past it. But instead he says, ‘have you got something for me?’

‘What? Oh - - yes.’

He hands over the flash drive. There have been words prepared, and actions: _the missile plans_ , and then a kiss, and tossing them into the water. But words seem silly, so he just throws them to the side and neither of them break eye contact as they _plunk_ into the water.

‘Aparctias.’

The eyes appear again. Jim is aware of movement as the mouse makes its way up Sherlock’s lapel and down his arm, coming to sit on his open palm. He should make a comment about how a mouse doesn’t seem very fitting, but that would be puerile. Especially as…yes, there it is. The mouse becomes a small songbird, its head cocked to the side as it watches him too.

‘So it’s ‘I’ll show you mine, now you show me…nothing’? I admit it’s _odd_ , parading that you’ve never grown up. It’s not the same as not having one at all.’

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock sounds contemplative, not offended. ‘Of course, I can never know. I get comments, but at least I have one. It’s not the same. But you’re not the only one who’s different.’

‘I do know this. You don’t need to state the obvious.’

‘Statements often mean more when they’re said.’

The truth is, he does appreciate it. A little. He shrugs. ‘It doesn’t mean I won’t kill you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re in my way.’

‘Yes. And I’m not going to get out of it.’

‘Then there’s only one way this can end.’

Jim observes from behind his eyes, leaving the mask calm and easy. He sometimes wonders if he’s his own daemon; alive behind a still façade. It feels that way sometimes, when he doesn’t feel dead. Like now, with the air thrumming between them; chlorine filling their noses, the weight of Carl Powers and twenty years pressing on their shoulders.

‘There’s many ways it can end.’

‘No.’

Sherlock smiles. Aparctias chirps merrily and flits back up his arm, coming to perch on his shoulder. ‘Yes. But seeing as you don’t like my gift, maybe we should part. I’ll see if I can find something you like better.’

Jim tilts his head. It’s a dismissive gesture masquerading as interest, but something tells him Sherlock is not fooled. ‘If you think you can do better, by all means try. In the meantime, I’d better be off.’

But he doesn’t step away. He steps _forward_ , into Holmes’ space, and there’s a burst of savage satisfaction – and hope dying once more – as the man gasps and jerks backwards, instinct getting him away from this unnatural creature. Jim smirks and turns ninety degrees, black humour to cover the howl inside his mind. ‘Many ways it can end?’

No. He walks towards the side door, trying to let the whole encounter slip from his mind. But just as he’s about to leave-

‘You scare me. But I’ll do better.’

Jim misses a step. His hand pauses in the air.

‘I will. I’ll do better.’

He wants to look back over his shoulder. But he can’t, it would be an unforgivable weakness. He just blinks at the pane of glass which reflects half his face back at him; ghost bones and a black gap for his eye, translucent with Sherlock behind him…and walks on, pushing through the door, and away.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

Jim paces a trail up and down his flat, mapping out the destruction they’re going to leave in their wake. He’ll initiate, of course; that’s his role. Sherlock is there to figure things out, not start games of his own. But he’ll leave plenty of mess behind too, broken people and their broken hearts, broken bodies, broken souls. So fragile, these idiots who walk around with their innermost parts on show. And Sherlock will be one of them in the end. Jim dreams of picking up his animal and holding it in front of his face, making him drop to his knees. Making him watch as he squeezes the life out of little Aparctias. Breaking him in one hand.

But Sherlock needs to get properly famous for this to work. Well, then. Jim is nothing if not helpful, when it gets him what he wants. There’s a painting he’s had an eye on for a while, and he has the exact GPS coordinates of Peter Ricoletti’s whereabouts at any given moment. Getting this going will be no trouble at all. It’ll take some time; he doesn’t want to rush it. He’s been watching Sherlock for twenty years, another few months are nothing.

There are other games in the meantime. Irene Adler, who usually keeps well within her lane, actually captures something of interest. Letting her play with Sherlock is nothing much more than indulging his curiousity about the man, because that never, _has_ never, gone away. The only known person to reach his thirties and still have a changing daemon. There has to be a reason for it. And more importantly, the only person to have noticed little Carl was murdered. Jim can admit to himself – because who’s ever going to know? – that he keeps hearing those words in his head. _I’ll do better_. He dismisses them time and again, but they keep coming back. He does wish, sometimes, that Sherlock weren’t quite…what he is. Because he could almost believe the man _could_ do better.

But he won’t let himself think about it, or – it’s laughable to feel hope. What could even happen? It’s not like someone could find him a daemon, even if he wanted one. Which he doesn’t, because the thought of such weakness makes him shudder. They all look at him like he’s the wrong one; like he’s unnatural for just being him. But they all present their inner selves for everyone to see. Even if the animal shows no emotion or expression, the species gives so much away. With one exception, of course. Just that one.

He drums his fingers on his desk. Outside his window, the world spins on. It’s a good job he’s rich, because he can’t go out often; even if people just assume his daemon is in his pocket, nothing can hide the aura of what’s missing. He can’t afford to stick out like that. So he has a gym at home, a rooftop for fresh air, and everything is delivered. His tailor and barber are on retainer, living in luxury for the cost of being near him once a month, or less. He sometimes looks forward to them coming, only to realise, once they’re in his house, they can barely speak past the way he makes them feel, and he has nothing to say to them anyway. He feels worse when they’re gone, and angry at himself for forgetting it’s always the same.

He occasionally goes out in the dead of night. Hyde Park is only a couple of streets away, and he can walk without being observed. He has wondered whether he should employ someone to watch him on these occasional jaunts; he has no need of close protection, of course, but it would be the ideal time for a sniper to get him. But…well. That would be quick, wouldn’t it? And it’s funny, imagining the chaos London’s underworld would fall into if he were gone.

Christmas morning, then. He takes a walk, as he usually does. The Christmas Eve partiers have gone home, the families are all asleep, the streets are empty. He leaves his house at 3am, fully expecting to not see another soul. And he’s right, for an hour. It’s almost a relief to see the burly man up ahead, standing in the middle of the path. Outings at Christmas are the safest of all, but they do tend to lead to thoughts he does not enjoy.

‘Looking for me?’

He walks straight into the man’s space, waiting for the second he’ll stiffen and want to back away. Yes, there it is. But credit to this one, he holds his ground. He also holds a phone out. Jim stops six feet away from it, and tilts his head.

‘Mr Holmes. Merry Christmas.’

Holmes the Elder does not look amused. ‘Your presence is requested.’

‘Oh. How polite. And if my presence does not _want_ to be requested?’

Snipers, probably. Maybe he should have got that protection after all. But Mycroft Holmes shakes his head.

‘Your safety is assured, nor will you be detained. The meeting, I would think, is entirely to your benefit.’

‘You’re very _posh_ , aren’t you, Mycroft? Does that make you feel better? Even Sherlock’s not as posh as you. Do your Whitehall pals like you better if you talk like that?’

The man holding the phone is starting to look properly distressed. His bloodhound is cowering at his feet, caught between the desire to snarl and snap his teeth, or give in and howl to the sky. It’s stuck in a pathetic half-crouch as a result, shivering over the man’s shiny black shoes.

‘If you don’t want to come, I should inform you there are three marksmen a short distance away, each armed with a tranquilizer gun. If they are forced to use them, you will still be returned to your home, unharmed, by lunchtime. You can avoid the indignity of that course of action by simply coming along yourself.’

Jim sighs. Mycroft is no fun. ‘Fiiiiiiiine, I’ll come to your Christmas party. But I’m not bringing anything at this late notice. You’ll just have to make do with me.’

Holmes just looks at him. Sourly. Jim grins, and snaps his teeth at the guard holding the phone. He literally whimpers.

‘I’ll meet this handsome young thing at Hyde Park Corner in half an hour. I need to get changed. Don’t have him trail back to my door, neither you nor he will enjoy the consequences.’

The sour look intensifies. ‘Acceptable. Thirty minutes, Mr Moriarty.’

Jim walks home, changes, and watches his own eyes as he slicks his hair back in the mirror. He doesn’t know what this is about, which is reason enough to go. And it is a Holmes affair, one way or the other. This might shape up to be the best Christmas ever.

 

*

 

Sherlock stands in the morgue, looking down at her body. Aparctias buries one small monkey paw in his hair, and says nothing. Sherlock can feel him shaking a bit, but he knows his own face is calm. He looks at what used to be her face, and can’t be sure enough.

‘Lower the sheet,’ he says curtly, and the morgue attendant folds it back far enough to check.

‘It’s her.’

Mycroft is in the corridor. He holds out a cigarette, and Sherlock smokes it. Medium tar, so he’s attempting to feel sympathetic. Strange that his brother would try and empathise over his feelings for Irene, but he’s not going to poke at it tonight.

‘They all… _care,_ so much,’ he says, and thinks of Irene being cornered and killed, her face being bludgeoned away afterwards. Hopefully afterwards. And he thinks of Jim, too. Wonders what Christmas looks like for him.

‘All lives end. All hearts are broken,’ Mycroft says, and Sherlock doesn’t consider it odd until later, the way his brother was looking at him as he said it.

 

*

 

It is the best Christmas ever.

Jim steps into the cell in Sherrinford, keenly aware that this is a place he only narrowly avoided being locked in himself. All those tests that were done on him when he was young – if he’d shown signs of violence then, this is where he’d be. If they’d caught him after Carl, this might be his cell. And he knows they thought about doing it anyway. He can’t even blame them, because they were terrified he was going to grow up to be dangerous, and that’s exactly what he did.

‘Didn’t you ever consider?’ says Eurus Holmes, standing exactly two feet back from her glass divide, ‘that it would have been funnier to defy expectations. You could have been a _good_ boy. That would have confused them.’

‘Yes,’ he says, because he had. She cackles though, her eyes madder even than his.

‘But you can’t go against nature? No, that’s rubbish. Come here, Christmas Present.’

Jim tilts his head to look past her. Her daemon is behind the bed, making snuffling noises against the wall. ‘That’s rubbish?’

‘You can do whatever you want. You became this because no matter what you did, they still wouldn’t be able to stomach you. So you thought you might as well get rich and have some fun, as you were always going to be alone anyway. Besides-‘ her mouth stretches into an awful rictus of a grin, ‘why pretend to be what you’re not? You’re never going to have one.’

He can’t deny he’d prefer not to have fulfilled expectations quite so well, but maybe having no daemon is something you just can’t fight. Not that he tried, at all. Maybe when he was a toddler. He steps up to the glass, looking her up and down. She steps up too, her eyes working over his face like they’d like to suck it through the glass.

‘I like you. You’re _funny_. The way you thirst after my brother, and won’t let yourself believe you can go near him. It’s a very strange choice, James. I admire it.’

There’s a lot of things he could say to that, but he won’t. He looks at her bed again. A long black tail curls out around the frame, and there’s a glimpse of shiny black fur.

‘Hiding him from me?’

‘ _She_ ,’ Eurus says, ‘does what she likes.’

He spreads his hands, then. She hasn’t recoiled once, which is unusual. Glass doesn’t make any difference to the way he makes people feel. Buildings can dampen it, and lead might stop it completely, but he’s never been in a position to try that, thank God. Maybe iron would be a thing, and he laughs inside his mind, because that would be nice, wouldn’t it? He could be an elf from fairy lore, wreaking havoc, making people put a horseshoe over the door to ward him off. Is that better than being a nuclear device, contained only by walls of lead? More fun, at least.

‘What am I doing here?’

Her mouth snaps shut, and she jerks her head sideways to observe him, a parody of his own smooth tic. ‘Because I like you. I’m going to _have_ you. I’ve been watching a long time, and-‘

Jim thinks of Sherlock, and all the years he’s been watching him. Wonders what he does on Christmas, sitting in 221b on his own.

‘-the things we could do, James. The things-‘

He looks towards the bed. A great black panther slinks out, and she is tall and shiny, somehow too _real_ , so much brighter than this drab woman with her mess of thick hair, and these terrible white clothes. But…he takes a step back, blinking. Eurus grins again, her head rocking gently from side to side.

‘-we could do.’

He swallows and for the first time in his life, realises what people feel when he walks into a room. Because this daemon is beautiful, and fit, and healthy, and then you get to its head and one side is majestic, a panther that could rule the jungle. And the other…the other is bone and blood, and one half of its lips have been ripped away, exposing its teeth and gums. The eye is milky, the fur is gone, and that side of the skull has been caved in. It’s like someone took a brick to it, then decorated with claws afterwards. The missing lip means there’s a constant line of drool, and it keeps shaking its head, snarling to itself or to Eurus, jumping from spot to spot and then circling, as if there is no way to be still.

She’s observing his reaction with a mixture of amusement and sorrow. He pulls his mask back on, and smirks at her. ‘That’s no way to treat a pet.’

‘How would you know? But then, I suppose you’ve got my brother.’

‘Not quite the same thing.’

‘That’s right. It might be more accurate to say he’s got you.’

Something rears up and snarls at her for that, but nothing shows. The panther feels it though, because it turns and roars, flecks of bloody foam shooting from its mouth. It must keep the wound open, he supposes. Maybe it can’t stop picking at it.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘I’m going to have you. We’re one and the same.’

He doesn’t look back when he leaves. In the helicopter on the way back to London, he watches the sea and asks himself honestly; _would I have done that to my daemon, if I had one?_ And the thing is, he can’t say ‘no’ for sure.

 

*

 

Sherlock steps up to give testimony. The courtroom is packed, and deathly quiet. Moriarty stands in the dock alone, handcuffed to the wooden railings in front of him because no one can stand to be close enough to him to keep guard. The spectators in the front row of the gallery keep peeking over to look down on him, then withdrawing in horror. Daemons curl into laps or on shoulders, close to the neck where they feel safe. The barristers are all lined up on the row in front of the witness stand, leaving several empty benches between them and the dock. Sherlock wonders if they coordinated that, or got special permission from the judge. Or is it just naturally accepted that everyone should be allowed to get as far away from Moriarty as possible?

He looks him over as the judge says something unimportant. He looks small, in a way. He’s short, but that’s not it. It can only be the absence of daemon that gives the impression of him somehow being… _incomplete_ , because nothing else about him would suggest it. He doesn’t look embarrassed, or insecure. He’s not fronting to make himself look bigger. He’s just standing there, utterly calm and still, a lone figure with a perfect ring of space around him that no one dares enter.

And Sherlock - - he blinks. Moriarty has found his gaze, and is holding it. He should want to back away, and of course he does, even with this distance between them. But part of him wants to move forward as well. Part of him is _fascinated_.

‘He’s going to kill you,’ Aparctias murmurs in his ear. ‘And he’s going to destroy you first, if you don’t stop him.’

‘But I will stop him,’ he whispers back, quiet enough that the barristers won’t hear him. ‘You can’t be as weak as him and not expect to be stopped.’

‘No one else in here would call him weak.’

‘No one else in here is me.’

The barrister for the prosecution stands up, and they’re underway. Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes off Jim. Jim doesn’t take his eyes off Sherlock.

 

*

 

‘It’s going to start very soon, Sherlock. The fall. But don’t be scared. Falling’s just like flying, except there’s a more permanent destination.’

Sherlock stands. Jim wants to smile at the tight little _never liked riddles_ , but doesn’t. He stands too, and snaps his jacket down into place as they watch each other’s faces from inches away. He has to give him credit. He hasn’t shied away once. If he’s still revolted by having him near, he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it.

‘Learn to.’

He moves past him in the direction of the door. And then, there are fingers around his wrist.

There are _fingers_.

Around his _wrist._

The horrible pattern of the wallpaper swims in and out of his vision, black and white doubling and then swaying back into focus, only to slip out of it again because when was the last time he was touched? He wants to drag himself away and scream, and _scream_ , and he won’t, can’t, because he does not give himself away with emotion anymore, that is not what he does or who he is.

But there is no way he can talk. They stand. He can feel Sherlock breathing, the movement of it gently muscling into his space. He can only hope he hasn’t gone as white as he feels.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Sherlock says quietly and, thank God, removes his touch. He steps back smartly, brisk once more. It allows Jim to gather himself and turn back into steel, something he would be grateful for if he ever felt gratitude, or Sherlock hadn’t caused the problem in the first place. ‘Apologies.’

‘Don’t apologise when you’re not sorry.’

‘Then I retract them.’

Jim swallows the thickness blocking his throat, and walks calmly towards the door. Every inch of him is screaming, but only where no one can see. And when he’s safely back in his flat he raises his wrist and stares at it, as though skin touched to skin would leave a mark, somehow. There’s nothing there, no trace of it. He is as unsullied as ever – but he can feel it still, burning. When _is_ the last time he was touched? Even he can’t remember.

Just another reason to kill Sherlock, he thinks, lowering his arm. But…

…no. No ‘but’. No, nothing.

 

*

 

A rooftop in early November. Moriarty circles, silent between his words, unreadable without an animal close by. Aparctias stays in a pocket; not because Sherlock doesn’t want him on display, or thinks he’ll be exposed to danger, but because he doesn’t want Jim to see that he is currently favouring the shape of a snake. Calm, unconcerned, but ready to attack if necessary. It would be helpful if he were something a little more fearful, and he should be. All the physical signs are there – his heartbeat is faster, his throat is a little dry. And even after overcoming the instinct to shy away from Jim’s abnormality, it has started to return when he gets particularly close.

But he can’t bring himself to believe that Jim really wants him to jump. Three months ago, when he’d taken his wrist and felt his pulse leap from something so steady and slow it was almost not there, to something trying to hammer out of his skin - - well, maybe that’s enough for Jim to want him gone. But if he really has spent all his life looking for distractions, how can he want to kill the one standing right in front of him?

‘Just tryin’ to have some fuuuun,’ he drawls in a faux-American accent, and walks back into his peripheral vision. Sherlock is tempted to touch him again; it wouldn’t take any effort to reach those couple of inches and he’s desperate to see the effect. But he doesn’t.

‘Tell me,’ he says, as Jim strolls across his eyeline. ‘You must have considered that you might have a daemon. Inside, somehow. You must have checked.’

There’s no immediate reply. And that says quite a lot, or at least implies that he’s right. Secret MRIs, CAT scans, X-rays. Anything to see where it could be hiding.

‘Why?’ Jim says eventually, once more appearing in sight. But this time he stops, and smirks. And then leans in close with the crazy eyes, and too-wide grin, leering in an artful parody of lust to cover how little he ever gets to use it. ‘Want to see if you can find what they couldn’t? Want to check _inside_ me, Sherlock?’

The fresh bite of gum-mint breath doesn’t cover the insanity underneath; nor Jim’s novelty at being this close to anyone, and – maybe it’s wishful thinking – but it seems he gets close, stays close, walks close, not just to make people uncomfortable but because it’s the only proximity he gets.

Sherlock brings his hands up, and puts them on those cold white cheeks. Jim freezes solid under his palms. There is no time to think, only _do_ ; Sherlock leans down, draws him up, and presses their mouths together.

It’s very soft. Warm-lipped and open-mouthed, tongue no further than his teeth. The man in his hands is not moving or breathing, but he’s not pulling away either. In shock, no doubt. Sherlock is just as surprised, but at least he’s had a few months to think about it.

There’s a small sound, a vibration from Jim’s throat. Sherlock releases him. He doesn’t move back; he just looks down, drowning himself in dark, dark brown. After a minute, when neither have moved or said anything, he finds words. Hopefully the right ones. It’s impossible to say.

‘I’ve never done that before either.’

Moriarty takes a big step back. Sherlock runs his tongue along his lower lip, searching for remnants of mint.

‘Do you think that’s going to save your life?’

His voice is too calm to be anything but shaking underneath, and Sherlock can only be honest. ‘I don’t know. I was rather hoping it would save yours.’

And if it means Moriarty kills him – well, he was planning to do that anyway. At least this way he tried.

‘This isn’t about _sex_ , Sherlock.’

‘No.’ He meets his gaze, unmoving. ‘It’s about far more than that. And only someone stupid would fail to investigate properly.’

 

*

 

If a touch on the wrist felt like a heart attack two beats from happening, a kiss is like…he doesn’t know. He’s never felt anything like it before. When’s the last time he felt a kiss? When he was a baby? He must have…or maybe not. His mother wasn’t really…no, he won’t think on it. He…no.

He stares into ocean eyes, searching for something that would make sense of how it feels. But Sherlock just looks back at him, and his expression is almost kind. Jim could kill him for that, except now he’s not sure he can kill him at all.

If he meant it. If he didn’t, then Jim won’t wait for him to jump. In fact…there’s a gun in his hand. It’s too early for it, he hadn’t planned for it yet, there were a few more minutes. But this is getting out of control. It started off as a game but it was never supposed to mean touches, or kisses, and he doesn’t know what he thinks – except that he’s James Moriarty, the name everyone fears to speak. He’s untouchable in every way. And he can’t let one man change that.

Sherlock’s face is calm, serious at the other end of the barrel. He seems to understand this isn’t a joke. But he doesn’t look _scared_ , and that’s not fair. That means an uneven playing field.

‘I know why your daemon won’t settle.’ A blink. Fucking _good_. Jim laughs, and it’s a brittle thing. ‘I know why it’s _never_ going to settle.’

‘-but he will. Eventually.’

‘No.’

The confusion is glorious. And it means they can finish this game after all, because it was always about making Sherlock feel as bad as he does, wasn’t it? Whether he jumps or not doesn’t really matter; his choice is being dead, or living with the deaths of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And now he can live with this too.

‘Not unless something else happens. Want me to tell you?’

‘ _Yes_.’

‘Well-‘ his arm jerks, and he’s laughing suddenly, filled with a final burst of elation. ‘- _tough_.’

He bends his arm, opens his mouth. Freedom is two seconds away, one; he thinks of his mother who wouldn’t touch him, and a running track with a lion that was too scared to attack, and eyes following him everywhere he goes. He thinks of all that money, and a flat that’s always empty. All the conversations he’s had with himself, and all the times he’s told himself he doesn’t care.

He keeps his eyes open. They’re fixed on Sherlock’s and he’d smile at him with this last breath, if he could. But he needs his mouth for the gun, and his finger is squeezing the trigger and then, there’s a movement. A…tongue. Jim blinks, falters on instinct, and it leaves a split-second where he’s not moving. Time enough for a small frog to appear from Sherlock’s pocket, time enough for its tongue to shoot out and clamp to the end of the barrel. It jerks it an inch to the side and Jim almost pulls the trigger on reflex, but something inside screams _no_ because he’s not going to kill Sherlock by _accident_ , that’s not how it’s supposed to be. And the frog is jumping now anyway, using its grip to propel itself forward, its whole body landing…on his hand.

The world stops moving. Sherlock’s breath chokes over his teeth. Jim feels like the building is falling underneath his feet. Like the planet has shifted on its axis and he’s hanging sideways in the air, still staring into Sherlock’s blue eyes.

He drops the gun. The frog leaps off his hand, dives back to the safety of Sherlock and disappears under his jacket. Jim can imagine it nestling down into the inside pocket, shaking next to his thumping heartbeat. It’s dark there, probably. Warm.

Sherlock is trying to find words. Which is good, because it saves him having to.

‘I’m going to - - I’m going to pick the gun up.’

Fine. Okay. Jim blinks to try and straighten the world out. It doesn’t work, but it does let him see that Sherlock’s hands are trembling as they close around the handle and lift it out of his reach.

‘I didn’t know he was going to do that.’

Jim nods, once. Obvious. Sherlock clears his throat.

‘I’m not sorry.’

Right.

‘I’m going to ring Mycroft and get his car downstairs. You’re coming back to Baker Street with me.’

Jim remembers Christmas. _I’m going to have you_. But this time, he doesn’t have it in him to resist. For once, all he can do is follow.

 

*

 

Sherlock busies himself lighting the fire in Baker Street. It doesn’t take long. Then he goes to make tea, glancing at Jim who is standing very still in the middle of the room, staring straight ahead. ‘You can sit down,’ he says, but Jim doesn’t move until he walks back in with the tray. Only then does he take the spare armchair, and accept a cup and saucer.

‘It seems selfish to ask about Aparctias and why he won’t settle. I’m doing it because I don’t know what to say about the other thing.’

Jim looks relieved, he thinks. He’s so much harder to read without an animal to hand, though Sherlock suspects he’d be just as difficult if he did have one. Some people just know how to hide themselves.

‘If I tell you, it’ll spoil the joy of discovery. Though if I don’t-‘

He sips his tea, appearing to think it over. Sherlock feels Aparctias move up out of his pocket, and change under his lapel. A bigger lump, and it’s a kitten’s paw that emerges a second later, followed by a small pair of ears.

‘Not a good time for this, Aparctias,’ he mutters, a little embarrassed when Jim looks over and sees him. There’s no expression from him though, and the kitten just yawns.

‘You don’t care what he sees. Too late to pretend to mind now. And he has nice hands, you know. A bit cold. You could warm them up.’

‘Aparc-‘

‘ _I_ could warm them up.’

Sherlock blinks, and flushes red. Jim sets his tea cup down and for a couple of seconds, looks like he might sit on his hands.

‘Sorry about him. He just…I don’t know. He-‘

Jim waves him off, then picks his cup back up. They sit in silence, drinking their tea.

 

*

 

Baker Street warms slowly. Sherlock has the knack of knowing when to stay quiet, it seems. Jim is grateful for it, which is strange after all these years trying to get away from the silence.

At some point, he draws his phone out of his pocket and sends a text. Sherlock’s phone rings a minute later; he answers it, and then there’s a simple, ‘I see.’ He puts it down. Aparctias settles on his lap. ‘Thank you.’

Jim shrugs one shoulder. So, Lestrade will be around to carry on being incompetent, and Mrs Hudson can continue flitting around being hopeless. No skin off his nose. He dismisses them, and thinks of Eurus instead. That panther with its bashed-in face, coming into the world. He can feel them on the edge of his space, ready to invade. Is he going to be hers? Of course not. He is, and always has been, his own.

But if he’s not hers, she’ll come for him. She’s already coming for Sherlock, and their brother. It’s an uneasy thought, and he’s spent too long lazing around here. He stands up. Sherlock looks surprised, and follows straight after.

‘You don’t have to go.’

‘I want to.’

‘You were going to kill yourself, Jim. I don’t think you should-‘

He breaks off. Jim huffs with no humour. ‘-shouldn’t be left alone? If we’re going to see each other again Sherlock, you should consider your words more carefully.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

He really has the loveliest eyes, Sherlock. Time can tick on unnoticed, looking into them.

‘If you want to know about your daemon, ask your brother.’

‘…my brother?’

‘Yes. Ask him about Sherrinford.’

‘Sherrinford.’

Jim nods. It doesn’t feel terrible to have said it. It’s not _thank you for not letting me die_ , because he’s pretty sure that’s nothing to be thankful for. But Sherlock touched him, and he didn’t have to. He touched him the way few people ever touch someone else.

‘What will I find in Sherrinford, Jim?’

‘Answers. And…trouble. A whole lot of trouble.’

‘The sort of trouble I might need help in dealing with?’

‘…maybe.’ He smiles, a little bit. ‘I would go as far as to say, probably.’

Sherlock is smiling back. Has anyone ever smiled at him? Right now, he’s not sure it matters. And it’s not a surprise when a hand extends; for a moment Jim thinks it’s going to sit there to be shaken, and he steels himself to be able to take it. But it doesn’t stop in the air. It comes forward until the palm is against his tie, right in the middle of his chest. And it’s…fine. Not on skin, so less of a shock. He’ll examine the flare of disappointment later.

‘I think you do have a daemon.’

‘I think you’re wrong.’

‘No.’ It’s weird, the vibrations of Sherlock’s voice, carrying along the arm and through his shirt, into his body. ‘It’s in here. You carry it inside.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Is it? You know as well as I do, everything’s impossible until it’s proven. And some things can never _be_ proven, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.’

‘Sherlock-‘

He’d refute it, but that hand is heavy. A light touch weighs so much. And Aparctias adds to it now, tiny paws stepping along Sherlock’s arm, coming to settle on his wrist.

‘If you had no daemon, you couldn’t have survived this long. But do you know how I know it exists?’

Jim shakes his head, watching blue while on the edge of his vision, he knows a paw is reaching out. It lands next to the gently splayed hand, a hammer-thud over his heart.

‘Because you know when he touches you. And he knows you’re touching him back.’

The silence sits there with no need to be filled. Jim closes his eyes eventually, fading out the panic babbling in the back of his mind. He focuses on the beat of his heart, the dual heat on his chest. So what if it’s true? So what if that means a lifetime of hatred and fear has been for nothing, and so what if he’s going to have to process the rage at that later? Right now, there’s this.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he whispers, when he can. ‘Why does it matter to you?’

‘Because-‘ Sherlock’s voice is deep, and very warm. ‘-I’ve never seen anyone like you before. And that’s something to run _to_ , not from.’

It’s as good an answer as any, Jim thinks. Better than most. Good enough for him, for now. Good enough to mean he can come back. And he will, because whatever any of this means, he has never been a stupid man. And only someone stupid would walk away from this.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got weirdly fluffy? Idk. *hands*


End file.
